User blog:Orgodemir27/I Know the Answers, But I Don't Understand (Part 1)
Flip*…5 seconds. *Flip*…5 seconds. *Flip*…4 seconds. *Flip*…5 seconds. It seemed to be getting faster over time, but more trials would have to be done to be certain. *Flip* He used the tip of his pen to overturn the beetle again, counting the seconds until it righted itself. Four seconds. He scribbled the number in the growing column, the numbers regularly becoming ever so slightly smaller. It wasn’t very precise though, he knew; he could only round to the nearest second. Wouldn’t it be marvelous to be able to accurately measure time that small? How would it best be accomplished? Certainly there could be some sort of magic that could perform that task, but would it better serve as an enhancement to one’s own ability to track time, or as an external display which could track the passage of time of its own accord? There were machines that could perform the task as well; do ones that precise already exist? How would they function, if they do? No. Stop. Focus. *Flip* 5 seconds. “Hey.” Hmm, his eyes flicked over at the sound, ruining the trial. A slight frown as he marked the lost data in the column. Ignore them, they aren’t worth the attention. They never were. *Flip* 2 seconds; an outlier? Possibly, or maybe it was improving. “What are you doing playing in the dirt, elf? Trying to get closer to the weeds? Not enough trees to hug?” They laughed, but they always did. Still not worth attention; they’d go away eventually. *Flip* 4 seconds. It probably was an outlier, but it shouldn’t be discounted yet. A jolt of pain ran up his leg from his ankle. “Don’t ignore us, elf, we just want to talk.” His thoughts were broken by the shock of the kick, but were never stopped for long. Fine, if you so badly want eye-contact, you can have it. He turned his gaze to them, but didn’t bother getting up; there was no point, and at least a 65% likelihood that they would push him back down anyway. They sneered some more. Hurry up and finish, I have better things to do then look at you. “What did you do to your face? Get sick of seeing it in the mirror?” Hrm, didn’t need reminding of that, it itches and I had just stopped touching it. His hand went to the bridge of his nose almost instinctively; it felt different now and it was strange to not be completely familiar with something so close. The body had so many interesting details, how could you not be interested in learning them all: the way the skin wrinkles and folds around the knuckles, the small defects and pores of the face, the exact pigments and tones of eyes. Stupid eyes. 783 people since I started counting, and not one of them has even near the colour of my eyes. Elf eyes. Mother would get mad if she saw me picking at it again, but I’m not really picking at it, just touching it. It will probably never feel like it used to again, depending on how much it scars. Another stab of pain, this time from his knee. “What are you, deaf? Think you can ignore us?” Apparently I can’t, but wouldn’t that be nice? To be able to just pretend you weren’t there, and not have to listen to you, or look at you? It would be nice, if I could really ignore things. “No.” Explanations don’t matter; they’re not what they want. “What did you do, walk into a wall while you were busy writing in your diary?” More laughter. I’m sick of this, this waste of time. He sat up, slowly; don’t provoke their attack, they could do worse then the kicks they’ve been giving. “Aww, what, did we hurt your feelings? Going to go home to your mommy?” Slowly, evenly, he undid the bandage that was covering his nose and face. Burns are one of the uglier wounds to look at; it could be much worse than it was, of course, but they probably hadn’t ever seen anything more then a scraped knee or a sprained wrist. Two of them flinched, and the third looked a bit paler. Good. Simple and short. It has to be simple and short. “This was an accident,” he stared directly at the center one, their leader, unwavering, voice emotionless. “Imagine what I could do on purpose.” He watched him stutter, pale, nearly rage. Keep staring. He’ll attack, or he’ll leave. Leave. Leave me alone. “…Ah, whatever.” Don’t stop looking, watch them, they have to know that I’m watching them. When they were gone, he turned back to the grass. The beetle was gone; that was the end of that. What did they gain from bothering me? Maybe they’d leave me alone now, maybe they wouldn’t. He clutched his notebook and rolled over a few times, until his gaze fell on a cluster of leaves. Do I know this plant? It might be a thistle, but the hairs seem a bit different then the others that grow around here. He began to sketch it, his mind wandering away again. Category:Blog posts Category:Backstory Category:Blog posts